Bard and His Lia
by Aurelia Kubelmanczyk
Summary: In this universe, there's no magic, no dragon, and no mention of dwarves. He's just a man who pilots a barge for his living. Poor Bard has spent the last handful of years alone, having seen his children grow up and leave Laketown to seek their destinies elsewhere. He is lonely and grumpy, and it's going to take a special kind of someone to brighten his day.


**CHAPTER ONE: LONG LOST NEIGHBORS**

Bard was just about to set about scrounging up some dinner when he heard a knock on his kitchen door. The wind had finally died down outside, but the late afternoon sun had loosened the grip of the heavy snow and ice on his roof, and he heard it creak and groan in response to the knocking.

_Who the devil could this be?_ he thought grumpily to himself, cursing the knocker for reminding him that he hadn't yet cleaned this last round of snowfall and icicles from his roof. Forty-five years old but feeling a thousand after four long days in a row on the icy waters of the river, Bard rose on stiff and tired knees and frowned through the curtain at the silhouette outside.

As he opened the door, a number of things happened at once. At the same instant that he registered that a woman stood before him, he also realized that she was about to be crushed by a downfall of ice from his roof. Before the creaking groan which promised her terrible discomfort and possible injury could pay out on its threat, Bard seized her by the shoulders and yanked her sharply toward himself, stepping backwards through his door with her held tight in his arms. A soft and breathy "oh!" emanated from the woman's mouth, audible to him (over the din of the falling ice hitting the planks of his walkway) only because she was so near his ear. Chunks of ice broke off and slid across the planks in every direction, including through his door and into his kitchen, skidding to a halt as they hit the woman's and his ankles.

"Bloody damnation," he muttered under his breath, kicking the ice back out the door as he released the woman. "Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked, frowning, without looking at her.

Instead of speaking, the woman only looked from him to the ice and started chuckling. "I'm sorry! It's only, that was quite a way for me to introduce myself to a neighbor!" She continued to chuckle, and Bard could only glance awkwardly sidelong at her and back to the ice chunks on his floor. "I'm all right, sir, I assure you." She giggled lightly again. Bard looked up at her and properly saw her for the first time.

She was bundled in layers with a bright blue scarf at her throat and wrapped up over her head, which served to accentuate the pale beauty of her heart-shaped face, framed on either side with long, large, bright red curls of silken hair. Her cheeks and the tip of her elegant nose were flushed pink from the cold, as were her soft, curving lips. She was smiling warmly at him, and her blue eyes, as deep and as brilliant a blue as the scarf, shone and sparkled with a liveliness that entranced Bard. He had never seen her before, and that was most unusual in Laketown.

When Bard only blinked at her, his bewildered frown persisting, she gestured to the door and asked playfully, "Do you reckon I should go back out, and we'll try that over again from the start?" The woman chuckled under her breath.

Bard glanced down at the ice again and felt his cheeks grow warm, but he grinned a little in spite of himself. "No – I'm sorry. How can I help you?" He glanced sidelong at the woman and busied himself with brusquely shoving the ice and snow out with a nearby broom.

"I've come to meet you, neighbor!" the woman enthused, and Bard noticed in his periphery that she held a basket in her hands. He looked up again, pausing in his work. The woman raised her eyebrows at him and leaned forward a little, clearing her throat very softly, still grinning, with that twinkle of amusement in her eye.

"Yes, come. . .come in," Bard muttered lamely, gesturing toward his kitchen table. "I'll just be a. . ." and he turned his back to her, very quickly shoving the large chunks of snow and ice over the side of his walkway, listening for the thuds and splashes as they hit the planks or water below. When he'd done, he came back inside, securing the door behind him, and found that the woman had set her basket on the floor, loosed her hair from the scarf, and was shaking a little sprinkling of snow out of it.

"I am Lia," the woman announced with a smile.

"Bard," he answered, still frowning, as was his way.

"I know," the woman told him. "You knew me long ago, when I was a child. You knew my father, Therron."

Bard turned from hanging his coat and stared at the woman for a few seconds. "Yes, the keeper of books and lore. You're not. . .you're little Lia? My stars!" he exclaimed with the first hint of a real smile. "Yes, Therron used to live two lanes over, and I remember you and your brother, with your fiery hair, running through the boardwalks like little living torches. . ." Bard's brow knit as he tried to reconcile that image with the one before him.

"That was us," Lia laughed.

"How time has passed!" Bard observed quietly, scrutinizing the beautiful grown woman that fiery little girl had become.

"Yes, it's not little Lia anymore! I'm nearly thirty now," Lia grinned.

"Will you come and sit?" Bard offered, taking Lia's coat and helping her to a chair. He offered her a drink, and she politely refused. "Whatever happened to your family? Therron left. . .must have been. . .fifteen years ago now?"

"Yes, when mother died, we moved away to Tithering in the South," Lia nodded.

"I was sorry to hear of her death," Bard sympathized. "I lost my wife in the same fever."

"It was a terrible time for all of us here," Lia remembered, and they both sat in silence for a moment.  
"But what became of you lot, then?" Bard picked up.

"My father took work at the library, as one might expect," Lia laughed. "Turns out he had a desire to move there all his life. My brother followed him in that pursuit."

"How are they these days?" Bard asked, grinning.

"Father always had problems with his leg," Lia said, and her grin disappeared, "and in the end he fell ill and passed. My brother journeyed to Gondor seven years past, to study in the great library of Minas Tirith, and I've not heard of him since." Bard saw sadness creep into Lia's eyes, chasing out the merriness that had been there.

"I'm sorry," Bard offered, frowning again. "And now you've come back to Laketown. . .with a. . .husband?" Bard speculated, trying to put pieces together.

"I return alone," Lia smiled a little sadly. "A fever came to Tithering two years past, and my husband also was lost."

"I'm so sorry," Bard frowned heavily. This poor woman!

"Thank you. I've come to start over, is sort of what I have in my head," Lia chuckled, gesturing in the air with a graceful hand. "I thought maybe if I came home, at least for a while, I'd give it all another go, or maybe find a sort of. . .peace." She grinned again, a little sadly. Bard nodded once, slowly, taking it all in.

"Welcome back," he finally said, one side of his mouth curving up in a little wry grin.

"Thank you!" Lia breathed, with another little chuckle. "I've brought you some food, to say hello," she said, and brought out her basket.

Bard had forgotten about it. "That's not necessary . ." he breathed, awkwardly, embarrassed, but Lia just smiled, so warm and sweet, that he fell speechless.

"Oh, go on, it's the least I can do after you saved me from my imminent, icy doom by the door," she teased him, and he felt his cheeks flush and had to lower his eyes. She was _very_ pretty, and when she looked at him like that, he felt it through to his very center. "Well, I don't mean to keep you from your evening," Lia said cheerfully, rising and setting the basket before him on the table. Bard also rose. "It was a pleasure meeting you, again, Bard," she beamed, offering her hand. He took it in his own; her fingers were cold from being outside, but her skin was wonderfully soft, and she gripped his hand firmly and affectionately. "I will endeavor to be the most courteous and pleasant neighbor you've ever had," she told him, and there was that twinkle in her eye again.

Bard grinned. "It's good to see you again, Lia," he said. Lia began wrapping her scarf about her. "Thank you for the basket," he remembered, and Lia grinned sweetly in acknowledgement. "Say," he added as he saw her out the door, "I'm going to make this roof less treacherous tonight. How is yours?"

"What do you think?" she offered curiously, gesturing to the house right next to his. He was surprised at first, then realized that the place had indeed been empty since old Grindley had died a few months ago. Bard scanned the eaves of Lia's roof, narrowing his eyes and assessing.

"It could use some attention," he told her, "unless you have a helmet," he added dryly, still staring at the roof. He was satisfied to hear Lia's breathy, musical laugh.

"Sadly, dear neighbor, I do not," she sighed playfully.

"I could come tomorrow morning and clear it for you before I venture out on the water," Bard offered.

"I would appreciate that very much!" Lia enthused. "On one condition!" she added.

Bard cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows to indicate he was listening.

"You must let me make you breakfast," Lia drew herself up straight and raised her chin.

"All right," Bard agreed, with his one-sided grin.

"Wonderful! Then I wish you a good evening, Bard," Lia beamed.

"Good evening, Ms. Lia," Bard dipped his head slightly, smiling in spite of himself.

He closed the door after her and found himself grinning for several minutes, even after he'd gratefully raided all the succulent contents of Lia's generous gift basket, which provided him with the nicest dinner he'd had in some time, and plenty to spare for the next day.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO: BREAKFAST**

The next morning, Bard gathered his broom and his ladder and set off down the stairs, across the narrow lane, and up Lia's stairs. The smell of coffee and cooked ham and eggs greeted him as he reached the second floor, and soon after so did her voice.

"Good morning!" Lia poked her head out the kitchen window, grinning merrily.

"Good morning!" Bard grinned at her, setting up his ladder at the end of her walkway.

"How do you take your coffee?" Lia asked him, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders.

"Please, make it how you like," Bard answered shyly, flashing her a little grin before he set off up the ladder to avoid having to give any more conversation. He heard the shutters close below, and set about his work. He diligently cleared her entire roof and upper walkway the whole way round the house, a matter of twenty or thirty minutes work, since he'd been doing it to his own home for years and had an efficient system. When he'd done, he found Lia waiting for him back by the kitchen door.

"I feel much safer now, thank you," Lia grinned, twinkling, at him. He grinned in response as he laid down his tools, and brushed the snow off himself, shaking out his coat and pant-legs. "Ready?" Lia asked, and stepped aside to let him through her door.

Inside, his stomach growled at the mouth-watering scent of Lia's breakfast. A fire crackled merrily in her wood stove, filling the room with warmth that encompassed him, as did her smile, as he entered. As she took his coat, there on the table he saw eggs, potatoes, and ham, steaming hot and juicy. To the side were little breads or cakes of a sort he didn't recognize, and three little jars of jams, butter, honey, and a pitcher of milk. She'd clearly meant to spoil him. She guided him to the seat closest to the stove and handed him a large, hot mug of coffee.

"You are _very_ kind," Bard said, waiting for Lia to sit before he would. Lia smiled warmly as she scooted her chair closer to the table, and Bard settled himself in.

"A favor for a favor," Lia grinned with a cheeky little wink that made Bard lower his eyes, and passed him the plate of ham. When both their plates were full, Lia very gracefully filled the space with light amounts of conversation, posing just enough questions about Bard's work and his agenda for the day as not to burden him, and prattling merrily about her settling-in process a little here and there to even things out. Bard was surprised at how at ease he felt after the first few minutes. Lia's cooking was entirely delicious; he was accustomed to a rough bowl of sometimes hot, more often cold, porridge in the morning, if not a hunk of bread and water. It was not that he was so very poor, but that he led a rather spartan life by choice, not out of some dislike of niceties, but rather out of a lack of concern for his own enjoyment or comforts. This morning however, with the jovial Lia leading him along, he allowed himself to sample all her offerings, and by the end, he was quite happily full, and warm from head to toe. And where he was normally taciturn and somewhat brooding of a morning, he found himself often grinning, with an occasional chuckle at one of Lia's quips.

"Ahh," he sat back finally in his chair with a satisfied sigh, his one-sided grin gracing his lips.

"Good?" Lia asked him.

"Mm," he grunted, raising his eyebrows. "A mighty feast! As it was last night – I thank you very much for your gift," he told her.

"You are most welcome, conqueror of the ice." They grinned at each other for a moment until Bard shyly averted his gaze.

"I should go to the barge and set out," Bard said, sitting straighter in his seat. Lia rose with him.

"I have a proposition for you," she said, and Bard paused to listen.

Lia made her way to his coat and held it for him as he put it on. "The old man who lived here must have hired someone to do his laundry, but I'll be doing my own, and there is no drying line. So my proposal is thus, and if you're not agreeable to it, I assure you whole-heartedly that there will be no hard feelings," she paused, until Bard nodded acknowledgement, then went on, "If and _only if _you find it agreeable, I would ask you to please run a laundry line from my upper floor over to yours, and in exchange, I insist you come and have dinner with me."

Bard wrinkled his brow and thought for a moment, the engineering corner of his mind already working out a plan. "I agree," he told her, shrugging his shoulders to settle his coat about him.

"And you're sure you won't mind it running between our houses?"

"Not in the least," he assured her.

"Wonderful!" Lia enthused, folding her hands at her breast. "What will you need in the way of supplies and or funds?"

Bard thought for a second and remembered he already had the things he would need. "Nothing. I think I can manage with what I have."

"Sure?" Lia checked.

"Sure," he nodded. "I'll be home too late tonight, but I can do it tomorrow, if you like," he offered.

"Wonderful!" Lia repeated. "Thank you very much, Bard!" She beamed at him as he let himself out the door. "Best of luck today, and oh! Here!" She disappeared back inside for a second and returned, thrusting a little cloth-wrapped bundle at him. He gaped at her, and she giggled. "Some biscuits to take with you. Thanks again for your help with the roof!"

"And thanks to you," he dipped his head with a half-grin, gathered his tools, and strode away, and again he found himself grinning all the way down her stairs. And all that day, though he navigated cold and icy waters, he carried with him the warmth of Lia's kitchen.

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE: LAUNDRY LINE**

The following afternoon, Bard returned a little early, as he knew he would, from his day's work. Once home, he gathered the supplies he would need for Lia's laundry line and the tools to install it, and headed for his side of the line first. As he set down his things on his own walkway, he paused to listen, for he heard music emanating from Lia's house. It was a beautiful, melancholy tune, and first he thought she was singing, but as the melody mounted and swept along, he realized the sound was a well-played fiddle. His eyebrows rose in surprise. Conscious that she might see him listening, he crouched to take up his work, but found himself just running the length of rope through his hands a few times, absently, just listening. After a moment, he shook himself, and, with a sigh, determined to begin his task. But all the while, he listened and admired her music, wondering at this strange and beautiful woman, and beginning to realize how different life might be now that she lived beside him. As he set about his work, with the sweet sound of her playing behind him, his mind wandered, and he found himself trying to imagine what her life might have been like thus far. He found he had many questions about her, and more than the usual interest in seeking their answers. Of this, he also made note. For it had been a long count of years since Bard had really taken any interest in anyone but his children, now grown and gone to live their own lives.

When he'd finished installing his side of the line by a sturdy wheel and bracket, he knotted the end of the rope to give it weight, drew back his arm, and heaved it through the air across the space between their houses and over to Lia's side, where he was relieved to see it land and stay hanging over her railing. He then gathered his tools and ventured across to her house. He was sorry when her music stopped at the sound of his steps on the stair.

"Hello, Bard!" Lia's voice greeted him as he ascended to the top walkway. There she stood, beautiful and beaming, hair aflame in the late afternoon light, eyes bright and sparkling. It was no wonder her name was on everyone's lips in the town. Not only was she a new resident, and not only was she a former resident, and not only was she an available widow – she was, to top it all, stunning. "How do you fare today?" she asked welcomingly.

"I'm well, thank you. How are you?" he returned her greeting with a little grin, dropping his eyes shyly and pretending to adjust his grip on the supplies and tools in his arms.

"Very well, and glad to see we've had a day without snow!" Lia enthused with a warm chuckle. "How do you like chicken?" she asked him.

He looked up as he neared her, then lowered his eyes as he passed her. "Very much," was his answer.

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed in her customary way. "Do you need anything, or an extra pair of hands to finish this side?" she asked.

Bard set down his things and stood up again, narrowing his eyes at the spot where he would install her side of the line, as he ran his hands over the knot in the rope, beginning to untie it. "I should be all right," he assured her quietly, with a little shy glance in her direction.

"Please let me know if there's anything I can do, then, or when you're finished, you just come on right inside, all right?" He felt her beaming warmly at him.

"Yes, ma'am," Bard grinned in return, and dipped his head, setting about his work. It took him a moment after she disappeared within before he could fully concentrate, but once he did, he finished the job rather quickly. He then pulled the line to and fro, watching its progress as it moved around its loop, and gave it a solid tug to test its strength. Satisfied, he piled his tools neatly by the outside of the door and took a deep breath. He could hear Lia humming to herself inside; it was the same pretty melody she'd been playing on the fiddle earlier. Bard hated to enter and interrupt her, for he loved the sound, but even more he feared her knowing he stood there waiting and listening. With a quiet sigh, he tapped gently at the door.

"Do come in," Lia called to him, and he pushed the door open and tentatively leaned his head in. "Well, come on," Lia laughed lightly, coming to him and ushering him in. She took his coat with a broad smile that he felt once again go straight through the middle of him and settle in his center, spreading warmly from that spot outward. "It may not have snowed today, but still you must be half-frozen," she said. "Come and sit by the stove while I finish up, won't you?" She handed him a glass of dark wine and pulled a chair from the table to the stove side. Bard nodded his thanks, with a grateful grin, and settled himself comfortably into the chair. Her wine was delicious, and he held it in his mouth, savoring the first swallow with closed eyes. "How was your venture today? Where did you go?" Lia asked, turning away from him to season some vegetables.

Bard watched her as he answered, noticing her graceful, curving form. She wore a blue dress - he thought it must be her favorite color – laced at the front to accentuate her slender waist. The skirt, made from a smooth and supple fabric, hung loosely to her ankles, and swung neatly as Lia moved from one place at her counter to another. She had rolled the long sleeves up at the elbow to reveal slender, pale forearms and delicate hands. Her long red curls were pinned neatly back above her ears and swept back over her shoulders, the longest in the middle hanging down nearly to her waist, and sometimes if she looked up from her work, she would shake her head a little to put her hair over her back again, and Bard found that he quite liked the pretty way the tendrils shone in the firelight as they layered and lay upon each other. Occasionally, she would glance over her shoulder as she worked and he talked, to ask another question or respond with a smile or a laugh, and each time, he grew a little less shy and a little more comfortable in her presence, though she could still bring a flush to his cheeks if her gaze struck him right.

As she finished preparing their dinner and set the table, she asked him more questions about his life and work, and the normally reticent Bard found himself going on at relative length as Lia listened, eagerly taking in his answers. He'd never thought of his daily life as interesting, but Lia seemed to find a way to point out certain aspects that made him view his seemingly small existence in a new and better light. She was jovial and had a way about her of making matters seem lighter and more joyful than Bard would have thought possible. She also sympathized with and praised him for the hardships he had to endure, being out-of-doors all day and having to work alone.

"I don't mind it," Bard told her of his time alone on the barge. "I like to think," he reflected, and as Lia listened, her head cocked to the side and a hint of a little grin gracing her lips, he thought about it and added, with atypical expression and heart for him, "and I find it peaceful, with the sounds of the world all around me, the river, the animals, the trees. . .all uninterrupted by man. Just me, and the water, and the wild, and the wind."

"I think you are secretly a poet, Bard," Lia said affectionately. "As your name suggests," she winked at him, and he gave a little laugh, averting his eyes to the platter of chicken she passed him.

"I am curious to know more of you," Bard finally worked up the courage to say after a few quiet minutes of eating. "Will you tell me of your life in Tithering?"

"I will," Lia agreed jovially. "Since my father was the keeper of books and lore here, I'd always been interested in reading and learning. In Tithering, there is a great library, a _huge_ hall, just full of shelf upon shelf of books and scrolls, from the floor all the way to the ceiling. It's like a great cave, and you must use a rolling ladder just to reach many of the writings. Scholars come from near and far to study there, and the place is in constant need of tending. There's dusting and organizing to do, enough to keep a team of assistants busy forever, and I was lucky enough, with my father's connections, to be allowed to help there. In exchange, I was allowed to come and go as I pleased, to read for hours on end, so long as I was quiet and out of the way. Sometimes, I would climb all the way to the top of one of the great shelves and curl up on the top of it, hidden away, just me and the spiders and the mice, reading for hours!"

Bard smiled, enjoying the images Lia painted for him with her words. "That sounds peaceful," Bard said, and he was pleased when she went on at his prompting.

"It truly was," she reminisced, squinting her eyes in thought as she enjoyed a mouthful of vegetables. "There were a few times early on that I was locked inside, though," she laughed.

Bard's eyebrows rose.

"Oh, yes," she told him. "If I wasn't careful, I would get so involved in reading I'd forget to come down, and I would still be up there with my little lantern when the lights below were put out and the scholars left and the master locked up." She paused to laugh ruefully. "My father would give me such a thrashing! When I didn't appear at home for dinner, he always knew where I was, and that meant he had to go and disturb the master. . ." Lia's eyes widened dramatically, and Bard laughed.

"But if the weather was nice, after I finished working, I would sometimes take a book in the fold of my skirt and climb high into a tree in the grove behind our house, and read until the light failed me." She glanced at Bard. "Don't worry – those nights, they knew where I was, so they didn't come looking for me, even if I missed dinner. Father understood after a while that I liked to be. . .by myself," she mused. "And after a while, he wasn't well enough to come chasing me anymore." She smiled sadly and moved a piece of chicken around her plate with her fork, finally taking a bite after a moment.

Bard looked down at his own plate in silence.

"But oh, those beautiful nights. . ." Lia breathed yearningly. Bard chewed his food slowly, watching her. "When the light grew too dim to read by, I would just lie in the branches, gazing up at the stars for hours. . ." Her eyes were far away for a moment, and Bard tried to travel with her, tried to imagine her reclined in the branches of a tall tree, long red hair hanging down like willow branches, luminous blue eyes staring up at the sky. . .

Finally, she turned to Bard. "How are you liking your dinner? Shall I pass you some bread?"

"It's _delicious_," he groaned in appreciation. "It must be an age since I ate so well as I have in the last day!" Lia laughed with him. "I'd love another slice of bread, if you would," he agreed. She passed it to him with a warm grin, and refilled his wine. They sat in silence for a while, just eating, and it was a cheerful, peaceful silence. But Bard's curiosity urged him on. "I wonder, how did your husband ever find you, if you were always hiding with a book up in some height?" he asked teasingly.

"Ah," Lia nodded. She looked down at her food as she spoke, and Bard regretted his question, for her answer brought more sadness into her eyes. "When father died, my brother could not keep me, or. . .would not. In the last months before he left for Gondor, he made me present in the city, taking me to parties and gatherings of every sort among that class of people. I met many men, and my brother grew impatient with me as I refused several offers, so at last I had to choose." Lia finished and took a mouthful of vegetables and a drink of wine. Bard absorbed her answer and watched her carefully, trying to decide what tack he ought to take next, if any. At last, she looked up at him, and when she met his eyes, she grinned, and warmth came back into her. "Luckily, my husband was a good man. He was kind to me, and good to others." She smiled to herself, and Bard let the conversation fall into comfortable silence again as they finished their meal. When they'd done, both sat back, satisfied, and Lia engaged him in a little talk about Laketown's food supplies.

"I'd really love to find some other fowl," Lia said, running her fingers over the crease of her napkin in her lap.

"When it grows warmer, sometimes there are geese," Bard told her.

"Who sells them?" she asked with some eagerness.

Bard thought for a second, then said, "I could bring you one myself. I always have my bow with me."

"Could you, indeed?" Lia asked with a little laugh, surprised.

"Yes," he told her, keeping her gaze, but blushing - he'd not meant to brag.

"Well, if you did, I'd insist you help me eat it," Lia chuckled.

"Mm," Bard grinned, casting her a playful sideways glance. "If you're cooking. . .I'll make that a promise."

Lia laughed. "You can join me any time you like, neighbor, for you are wonderful company!" This was one of those moments where the warmth of her gaze forced him to look down, even as he returned her smile.

"I'm not sure," Bard said playfully. "I'll soon grow fat and round if we keep this up!" Bard patted his stomach and grinned, and Lia chuckled.

"Would that be so bad?" she teased, leaning over and pretending to poke him in the stomach. "You are lean and sinewy as a ragged wolf, dear Bard!"

He laughed, leaning playfully away from her reach. "Have you met many wolves?" he asked her with a sideways glance.

"Ooh, thankfully no," Lia sighed dramatically.

"I think I am more like a waterfowl," he assessed, narrowing his eyes in mock deep thought.

Lia giggled. "Then you are a black swan," she breathed, laughing lightly, and folded her hands up next to her cheek, leaning on them prettily.

Bard smiled at her. "I should never hope to be so elegant!"

"And still, you have an air of grace and handsome beauty about you," Lia offered, and her unblinking warmth and sincerity made Bard lower his eyes and brought the biggest flush yet to his cheeks.

Lia rose and brought from the side table a beautiful little pudding, laying it on the table between herself and Bard.

"You do mean to fatten me up!" Bard exclaimed quietly, and Lia laughed her watery, melodic laugh. Bard thought it sounded like a bubbling stream in spring, when the water is high with melted snow and tumbles eagerly over the rocks. A reckless part of him told him to tell her so, but he didn't dare. He feared to make himself look a sentimental fool.

"I have a great love of cooking and baking ever since I married," Lia explained. "It's a pleasure to share it with someone," she added, and Bard thought her voice grew a little sad. He watched her carefully as she cut some pudding and laid it on a little plate for him.

A strange and beautiful creature, he mused to himself, to be so full of joy and sadness at once. Yet who had he ever met, who had not experienced loss and sadness? What made Lia remarkable was the fire that burned in her heart. It shone undeniably through her eyes and her smile, warming him immensely. Such a fine, spirited woman – it was a true pity for her to be alone. The loneliness in her echoed the same in him, and he found himself feeling very akin to her as they sat in silence, savoring their pudding together. And a thought rose, fully formed for the first time since he'd met her, that he quickly stifled and pushed down and down, stamping it vehemently out, and yet it would rise again in an instant: _I want her. _

_I want her. _Immediately, he chided himself harshly: _She is but a few years older than your own son! You are old. She would likely laugh to even think it. An old, tired man – that is all you are! - when she deserves a man who is young and full of life. You should leave her be. Care for her as a neighbor, and nothing more. Nothing more!_

Lia spoke, and at the sound of her voice, he realized he'd finished his pudding and was staring across the table into nothing. He shook his head a little and turned to her.

"Will you have another cup of wine?" she had asked him.

He shook his head again. "No, thank you. . .I should leave you be," he said, and felt stupid for saying out loud the words that were in his mind. What an awkward and probably rude oaf he was!

"Nonsense!" Lia laughed merrily. Maybe it was impossible to offend her. "I'd love to sit and talk with you yet, if you've no pressing task ahead tonight." She raised her eyebrows, searching his face as she waited for a response. He felt his cheeks grow hot.

"All right," he agreed, offering her a little apologetic grin.

"Oh, good!" Lia chuckled softly. "For a moment, I was afraid I'd done something to put you off, or maybe my pudding was bad!" She laughed.

Bard gave a little laugh, too. "I assure you, your pudding is nothing short of perfection! And I'm not. . .put off," he muttered shyly.

"I'm glad to hear it," she breathed with a little giggle. "Will you come and sit with me by the fire?"

"I will," he agreed. "Here, let me do it," he said, gesturing to stop her, and he took over the task of minding the fire in her stove.

When it was blazing and crackling merrily, he sat in one of the two chairs Lia had arranged with a little table between them for their wine, and glanced at her. She was leaning back, running her hands over the whole length of her hair, with a little frown on her face.

"I used to have lovely ribbons for my hair," she lamented, "but they were lost in my journey, it seems. . ." Bard, mesmerized by the slow movements of her hands through all that pretty, shining length, saw her smile grow slowly across her plump, pink lips. She looked to him then, as if remembering he was there, and her eyes flashed mischievously as she said, "I suppose you'll just have to endure having a wild, untamed creature for your neighbor!" and with that, she fluffed out her curls dramatically with a sudden jerk of her hands, and she and Bard laughed together.

"How could I mind, when that creature has such a beautiful song?" Bard asked, and Lia's eyes snapped to him immediately. "I heard you playing, earlier."

"I didn't know it was so loud, or these walls so thin and close," Lia said with a bit of an apologetic tone, smoothing her hair back down.

"Where did you learn to play so beautifully?" Bard asked sincerely.

It was Lia's first turn to lower her eyes shyly. "I'm only learning now," she told him quietly. "I bought my fiddle in an old shop in the city about a year ago, and after the shopkeep told me how to hold it and care for it, I've just been trying to teach myself."

"You don't sound like a novice," Bard observed, making it clear that he was impressed.

"Thank you," Lia said, grinning, then stared into the fire in silence. There was a cheerful pause in which Bard waited for her to overcome her uncharacteristic moment of shyness. "Do you like music?" she asked him finally.

"Quite a lot, though I couldn't hope to carry a tune myself, by voice or any other instrument," he admitted, and they laughed together.

The next hours passed with shared stories of parties and gatherings, beginning with stories of their music, and diverging into various related topics, until the subject came round again to her fiddle playing.

"You should play for me some time," Bard suggested in the lingering warmth of a good shared laugh.

"Oh, no!" Lia squirmed in her chair, throwing her hands up to her face. "I'd be much too afraid to play for you!"

"Why?" laughed Bard.

Lia shook her head rapidly, giggling nervously. "I would want it to be perfect," she told him with wide eyes.

"There's no such thing," he shook his head, "or, rather, I find perfection in the truth of intention."

"You _are_ a poet, Bard!" Lia chuckled. "What do you mean?"

Bard pursed his lips, thinking how to better explain himself. "I mean that I find beauty in the goodness and purity of the heart. For example, a fiddler who can play very well, with skill, may play with little meaning and therefore not well at all; but a fiddler only learning may play more beautifully by far, just by virtue of playing with more heart. Does that make any sense to you?"

"It makes perfect sense," Lia breathed softly, and she grew quiet, contemplating Bard. He bravely held her eyes, rather than dropping his gaze, though it made his heart pound and his palms sweat. "I think you are a deep well, neighbor," she whispered, and a sweet, affectionate smile grew to slowly overtake her contemplative mouth, drawing an answering grin from Bard. They smiled at each other until they laughed, and then they laughed until they laughed harder, and they laughed hard until Bard shook his head.

"I think I've had too much wine," Bard said with a sighing laugh.

"Mm, maybe so," Lia also sighed, "but I think maybe you needed the laugh. . ." Her eyes twinkled at him in the firelight, and he nodded slowly, looking away and into the flames of the fire. "So did I," she breathed quietly, with another little chuckle. "So did I."

"I'd best be going," Bard said, raising his eyebrows with a little rueful grin.

"All right," agreed Lia, and both stood and stretched. Lia went for his coat, and paused, looking at it in her hands. Bard came and stood before her, and waited patiently for her to give it over to him, but she didn't. Instead, she looked up at him with a sparkle in her eye. "Do you suppose I could borrow your coat?"

"What?" Bard laughed.

"I'll send it back to you in the morning, across my new laundry line. Please let me borrow it," Lia said, in all seriousness.

Bard's brow knit, confounded, and he waited for her to laugh. She didn't. She only smiled at him warmly, and maybe he was too tired to care, or maybe he was reckless with wine, or too taken with her to be concerned about it, but either way, he wanted to let her have whatever she asked of him. So he said, "You'll let me have it back in the morning so I can wear it tomorrow?"

"I solemnly swear it," Lia promised, and he could tell she meant it. Strange woman.

"All right, then," he shrugged. After all, what was the harm? Besides, he had another old coat lying around somewhere, just in case. And the one she had in her hands was torn and ragged anyway.

"Would you like to borrow something to wear home?" Lia offered sincerely.

Bard only laughed. "I can manage," he told her with a playful raise of his eyebrows and a significant look out the window at his own house mere yards away.

Lia smiled, and it was full of benevolence. "Goodnight, then, dear neighbor," she sweetly wished him. "Thank you for the laundry line."

"Thank you for dinner, Lia. And goodnight!" Bard wished her in return, with a little bow of his head. And with that, he exited and went home, impervious to the cold, he felt so content.

* * *

The next morning, when he was ready to leave for his work, there hung his coat on the laundry line, right outside his kitchen window, but he had to check it twice to be sure – for every single seam that had gone ragged over the last years was now tight and solid again; every tear had been sewn neatly shut, there were two new buttons where before there had been none for many years, and even the pockets whose bottoms had come undone were patched and stitched solid again. Bard gaped open-mouthed, running the coat over and over in his hands, appreciatively tracing the new stitches with his fingers, and it was so warm, as if she'd hung it by her stove until the very moment she thought he would be up and about. He had to blink, because his eyes had gone glossy with tears, so deeply was he moved and surprised by this simple but generous act of kindness. He turned to look over at Lia's window, and he could have sworn he _just _saw the corner of her little kitchen curtain swing closed.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR: FOOTPRINTS**

Two days later, Bard stood in his kitchen, peering through the crack in his curtain, smoothing back his hair and taking a deep breath to steady himself. He picked up a parcel from his table. Wrapped with care in clean brown paper, the parcel consisted of a bundle of silken ribbon in three different colors – two shades of blue, and one of green, all meticulously chosen from his memory of the colors Lia wore, and the shopwoman's advice on what would best suit a flame-haired, blue-eyed beauty – for which he had fashioned a custom spool from an old oar handle, around which he had hand-wound the three long pieces of ribbon. To accomplish all this, he had made a special trip into a nearby town where he knew he could find the ribbon, which had cost him a certain sum and a good few extra hours in the cold – a price he was more than willing to pay. He couldn't wait to see Lia's smile when she opened this gift, and, more than that, he couldn't wait to see the ribbons in her beautiful hair. He even allowed himself to indulge in a vision of her unwinding one of the ribbons and tying it up in her tresses right there on the spot.

Smiling to himself and taking a last deep breath, his heart pounding lightly, he made his way out his door and down his stairs, across the narrow lane, but, at the bottom of Lia's stairs, he stopped dead in his tracks. He blinked a number of times to be sure, but yes, there on her steps in the snow was a clear set of male boot prints ascending the stairs, and try as he might, he found no evidence that this man had descended again. Bard frowned darkly up the stairs toward the light emanating from Lia's kitchen, holding his breath for a moment, his pulse thudding loudly in his ears, but could hear no sound from above. He felt his heart sink into his stomach, leaving it churning and uncomfortable.

_You stupid old fool,_ he cursed himself. _Did you really think no one else would come to court her? Did you think she would want an old, tired thing like you? Go home, idiot. Go home, have a crust of bread and some water, and go to bed. That beautiful creature has better things to do than waste her time with you._

He marched himself back up his own stairs and paused at his door, looking down at the parcel in his hands with disappointment, considering it. He still wanted her to have it. Whether or not he would ever see her face when she opened it, and whether or not he would ever see them in her hair, he still wanted Lia to have these beautiful ribbons. She was kind and good, warm and welcoming, sweet and generous, and she deserved this kindness from him. He went inside to fetch the basket she had brought him the day they had met, along with some thin rope, and fastened the basket to the laundry line. Forcing himself to look away from her windows, he sent the parcel in the basket across the line. Then he went inside and determinedly thought about everything in the world but her.

* * *

In the morning, Bard woke stiff and cold and tired after a restless night's sleep, and found himself feeling grey and cloudy as the late winter sky. The grey feeling was as familiar to him as his old coat, but even that he could not put on without thinking of her. The coat was warmer now that it was whole again, easier and much nicer to wear now that it buttoned, and he had remembered the usefulness of pockets, also thanks to her. This only served to make him more dour.

After a bowl of cold porridge in the dark, he dressed slowly. Standing in his kitchen, he allowed himself to glance out the window across the way. All was dark on the other side. Maybe old man Grindley's house had never received a new tenant at all, and he had dreamed the whole thing. He took in a great breath and sighed heavily, steeled himself against the cold outside and within, and opened his door.

Stepping out, he tripped over something at his feet. He looked down to find that the basket had returned once more! Oh wonderful, terrible, beautiful, accursed basket! He picked it up at once and raided it eagerly in the morning light. Lifting the cloth that covered its contents, he found within a little note and a delectable-looking pie. He closed his eyes and lifted the pie near to his nose, taking in the rich smell of apples and berries tucked inside buttery crust. He set the basket down and unfolded the note, reading it with haste, then re-reading it, then re-reading it again.

My Dear Poet Neighbor Bard,

I don't know how you managed to do it, but somehow you found the perfect ribbons! I can't tell you how moved I was by this gift. Do come and say hello soon, so I can thank you properly in person!

Affectionately yours,

Lia

Bard narrowed his eyes as he studied the note, then frowned up at the dark windows of Lia's house. His heart thudded, and he swallowed hard. He told himself she was just being courteous. Of course, with her warm personality, she would use such flowery language. Of course, she only _said_ that he should come and see her. It was an insincere invitation, surely – a social nicety and nothing more. Well, then, he was glad to have such a polite and courteous neighbor, as she had promised to endeavor to be. And that was that.

As he made his way through the waking town, other early risers were out, and the gossip was already flying, about _two_ young men – not just one! - who were pursuing the new woman, Lia, with the fiery hair. Bard cursed everyone in the whole town, for it seemed no matter where he turned, the story was on every pair of lips. Naturally, being her next-door neighbor, many were eager to pump him for information, which he brusquely avoided. But, try as he might, he could not avoid hearing their talk.

"Young Gregor, Toreg's son, is on her trail, I heard," an old fisherman said to his mate.

Bard knew Gregor to be a tall and handsome young man, maybe twenty-five, who'd been shy and late to think of marriage. He came from a long line of wealthier residents, shop-owners, and Bard knew him to be a kind person, if a bit uninteresting. _He would have the means to provide for her, but he knows nothing of caring for a woman!_ Bard lamented. _He'll be hopelessly inept! And Lia will be so bored with him!_ Bard growled under his breath like an animal.

"An' he'll have his work cut out for him, too, with Blaine having gone to see her already last night," said the other fisherman.

_Blaine!_ thought Bard with a mixture of disgust and despair. Blaine was the same age as Lia, a young widower himself, and ever since he'd lost his first wife in childbirth, he'd gone back to his old womanizing, brawling, drunken bachelor ways. The thought of him touching Lia. . .Bard boiled and seethed. She deserved better than that scoundrel.

"Well, not if Gregor's had his foot in the door first, I reckon," said the first fisherman. "He was there two nights ago, brought her half a hog and a crystal box, I heard."

Bard could stand no more, and broke into a jog to get away before he could hear another word. Everywhere he went that day, he was a grim, stony figure.

* * *

The next day, Bard avoided everyone in the town altogether, deciding he would rather leave very early and wait at his first destination than face the gossip mill again. It was a good thing at first, but without any new information, his imagination was starting to get the better of him. It didn't make things any easier when, just as he arrived home that night, he saw innocent-faced, dashing, simple Gregor ascending Lia's stairs with a large parcel under his arm. Bard closed all his curtains tight and went down to the first floor, where he sat on the boardwalk on the side of his house farthest from Lia's and stared out over the water until he was too cold to go on.

* * *

Again the following day, he avoided the gossip hot-spots in town, even though he was running low on food in the house. He decided that he would rather find food on his journeys out than spend another minute in that town than his business absolutely compelled him to. And so it was later than usual when he arrived home that evening. The sun had set, and a cold twilight was settling over the lake, and with it a chill, whipping wind. Having been cold all day every day for months now, it made little difference to Bard, especially since the grey still followed him.

He was just about to kindle the fire in his kitchen when he heard a knock on his door. His heart leapt and then sank. He wouldn't dare to hope.

But when he opened the door, there she was. His heart was in his throat immediately, choking him silent.

"Bard!" Lia cried his name, and the warmth of her smile and voice were imbued with a sort of urgency he'd never seen in her before. She reached for his hand, clutching it in hers. "Dear Bard! I've missed you so!"

"Hel. . .hello," Bard managed, frowning at her bewilderedly. Her hands were so warm on his frozen fingers.

"Oh, you're like _ice_, dear Bard! Please say you'll come over at once – I've made a beautiful dinner, and I mean to share it with you, and I will be simply heartbroken if you won't!" she laughed, and the familiar, beloved, musical sound of it sent a shiver of delight up Bard's spine. "Will you come?"

All he could manage was a nod. How could he say no to her? He didn't know what to think, so he just followed her, closing his own door behind him. He was surprised to find that she hadn't let go of his hand, and it seemed she wouldn't any time soon.

On the way down his stairs, she looked him over worriedly. "Are you all right, neighbor? I've not seen or heard from you in days, and your fire is rarely lit!" Her eyes were full of genuine concern. He didn't like to see her so worried.

"I'm fine," he reassured her. That was all he could muster.

"You look pale," Lia fretted, and caressed his hand with both of hers as they crossed the lane between their houses. Appropriately, this attention had the effect of making him blush. "Are you sure you're well?"

"I'm all right, Lia," Bard told her, but she seemed suspicious. He knew his tone was harsher than he normally used, but he was trying to keep his distance, and here she was clutching him by the hand. Maddening. But she wouldn't let go. And he couldn't.

She led him up her stairs and inside, taking his coat and hanging it gingerly by the door. She showed him to his seat and gave him a mug of cider. Then she beamed at him, took off her shawl, and said, "Look here!" most jubilantly, spinning round to show him her hair, which was wound up in a smart braided pattern, with the darker blue ribbon tied in. It looked most elegant, and with her hair up for the first time, he noticed the long elegance of her neck, and the pale luminescence of her white skin. Where he had begun to soften at her joyful revelation of her ribbons, he hardened himself again against her beauty.

"Lovely!" was all he could muster, with the weakest of courteous grins, a sick knot tying his stomach.

"It was a very kind and thoughtful thing of you to do!" Lia told him with a warm smile.

Bard grinned weakly back, dipping his head and raising his glass to her slightly. She seemed to visibly droop a little.

"Well," Lia sighed, and for the first time, he learned what a forced smile looked like on her lips. "Let's eat, shall we?" She sat down perpendicular to him as she had always done, and he loved and hated her proximity to him. "You mentioned last time we dined together that you wanted to try my shepherd's pie, so here it is, just for you!"

At last, Bard smiled, though sadly. "That was very kind of you," he told her without looking into her eyes. "Thank you," he added, with a brief glance to meet her confused gaze. He could tell that she knew without a doubt that something was wrong. He felt helpless.

They dished up their food and ate in silence for a few minutes, and it was the first time it was a tense silence between them. Bard's eyes darted stealthily around her kitchen, searching for signs of the presence of other men in her house. He could find none.

"How have your days been?" Lia asked gently. "With work, and all?" she added awkwardly.

"Fine," Bard answered flatly, unhelpfully. "Just. . .fine." After a moment, he asked, "How have you been?" and then quickly added, in spite of himself, "Are you settling in here all right?"

"I was," Lia answered plainly.

"You _were_?" Bard asked, curious.

Lia set her fork down slowly and let out a little sigh. "You know," she began, staring straight into his eyes. "I wouldn't normally allow myself to diverge from the customs of courtesy to risk making a guest feel uncomfortable, but I'm tired of social niceties of late; I'm tired of speaking in circles. I'm troubled, Bard. And I think you are the kind of man who might not mind being spoken to plainly. Am I right?"

Bard nodded, his brow knit and his eyes narrowed intently. He also set down his fork and braced for any possible outcome to this conversation.

"So I will ask you plainly, trusting what I think I know of you to be true, in that you will give me an honest answer if I ask you a question." She paused for his confirmation, which she received in the form of another nod. Bard thought she looked frightened, and his heart sank lower within him. Her eyebrows drew together, and she asked in a sad and breathy voice, "My dear Bard, have I done something to offend you?"

Bard sat up straighter, surprised. "No!" he answered immediately. "No, you haven't." He shook his head.

Lia's brows then lowered into a frown of consternation, then released, and one rose while the other hung low. "That's good. But it's just, I don't want to be intrusive, and perhaps I misunderstood you, but I thought. . .I thought we were maybe. . .friends."

She paused, and Bard's face gentled, but he didn't know how to respond.

Lia continued. "And I suppose I thought. . .that you might like to see me," she offered, with a sad little smile.

Still, Bard cursed his own silence, for he was unable to think of a single thing to say to ease her mind. All he could manage to do was stare mutely at her, and wait.

So Lia continued to labor for both of them. "But then I thought perhaps you were cross with me for some reason, since you were so elusive." She quit. She was asking him to say something.

Still he did not.

Lia sighed, then chuckled, and it was a sad laugh. "Oh, Bard! Enigmatic poet!" she cried softly, sliding one hand a little toward him on the table. He never took his eyes off hers. "If you are aggrieved, I would have you tell me, so I can make amends and we can go back to being as we were!" Though she chuckled to lighten the mood, her eyes pleaded with him, searching his face for answers that did not break through the grim stone there.

He wanted to tell her about the grey that came to replace her in this last week, and how until her arrival when it had lifted, he'd never before realized how heavy it truly was. He wanted to tell her how his stomach twisted at the words of the townspeople. About how the sight of any footprints but his own going up her stairs made him ache. About how he would give anything to be young again, to deserve her.

"Will you not speak?" she laughed sadly again.

"I am not cross with you," he spoke earnestly.

"Then what ails you?" she whispered. "You are pale again, and sad. Please don't deny it." It was a second before he realized she'd taken hold of his hand on the table. He looked down at her smooth hand folded over his own. "Is it your family?" she gasped suddenly, with a shot of panic as that thought came into her mind.

"No," Bard shook his head. He felt her fingers tighten over his for a second.

"Oh, thank god!" she exclaimed in a sigh. "And you are well?"

"I am not ill," he promised. He decided he was going to have to find the strength to rally himself and show her some cheer, or she would never let this go. To do so, he would have to open himself to enjoying her company now, and save his pain for later. He knew what it would cost him. And he knew she was worth it. Even giving her peace of mind for one evening was worth the havoc he knew it would wreak upon him for days.

"I am well," he told her, grinning. "I'm sorry to have worried you. I've had a lot of work lately, and it has been cold and hard going, so I have needed much rest." He grinned again, and squeezed her fingers in return. Lia scrutinized his face, only partly convinced. She was smart and intuitive. He would have to do better. "It does me good to see you," he offered with a more genuine smile. "I'm sorry I've not come to see you, and glad you could find me today."

"I've missed your company very much, Bard," Lia told him sincerely, and it moved him to a genuine smile, which finally Lia was able to return, and Bard felt the keel start to even out beneath them. "Thank you for agreeing to join me tonight." Bard dipped his head with a grin. "Now, we had better set upon this pie before it goes cold," she laughed a little, weakly.

They ate together in a much more comfortable silence for several minutes then. He sincerely praised her shepherd's pie, which in truth was the finest he'd ever tasted, and she made sure he had a liberal second helping and plenty of cider to wash it down.

Bard, still working to please her, made some joke about cider and apples and fermentation, and they laughed together; and it was the most natural moment they'd shared since their last dinner. It served to make Lia more comfortable, which ended up back-firing in seconds.

"Oh, dear Bard," she sighed with an affectionate smile. "I think I would be very lonely if we weren't friends. You're the only company I have, but even so, I think you are the best company I've _ever_ had."

Bard turned to look at her at once. She was gazing at him sweetly, with the familiar warmth he longed for, and now it only made his stomach toss and churn. He hadn't taken her for a liar, nor had he thought she would ever take him for a fool. He grew angry, and Lia's smile faded. She sat back a little, and the color drained from her face.

"Have I said something?" she breathed, her eyes eagerly searching his face again.

"You've had other company, and plenty," Bard answered at once in a harsh tone, and immediately cursed himself for it. _Stupid brute! What have you done?!_

Lia's jaw dropped, and she looked hurt. She stared deeply into his eyes for a second, then her face changed; she grew angry. Her skin was now white as the snow outside. "Is that what this is about?" she asked him, her voice low, near a whisper.

"I think I should go," Bard said, his voice much harder than his regretful innards would have had him sound. He pushed his chair back from the table.

"Why?" Lia asked, still in that low and quiet voice. Bard froze and looked at her again, and now her face was impassive. All expression, all life had left it, and she was merely watchful, closed and guarded. She could have been a beautiful statue, inscrutable stone.

It gave Bard pause. He lowered his head and shook it slowly. "I'm sorry, Lia. You are very kind. I am a brutish oaf, and I'm not fit for your company."

"Normally, I feel you're the _only_ one fit for my company," Lia said calmly. "Which was all I was trying to say." She had folded her hands on the table in front of her.

What did she want him to say? What could he say? What should he do? Why were women so difficult to navigate? He turned his gaze inward at himself for a moment, taking advantage of the space Lia was generously giving him to think. What had his dear wife always told him? - A good man tells the truth; a great man tells the truth of his heart. A good man realizes his mistakes; a great man owns and apologizes for them.

He spoke. "I'm sorry, Lia," he began, then faltered. How could he say what he meant to say without making an even bigger fool of himself? He floundered.

Lia helped him by very gently asking, "Why did you snap at me so?"

_Speak, you idiot!_ he urged himself. He writhed internally in discomfort and a certain amount of panic. "I shouldn't have spoken harshly to you," he shook his head, painfully looking her in the eye. "You don't deserve that. The truth is, I've also missed your company, very much, and I know that you have had. . ._other_ company," he admitted. "I'm foolish for being angry, and I'm sorry."

"Why did the other company make you angry?" Lia pressed him unrelentingly.

Bard glanced away, gathered his strength, came to a compromise with himself, and replied honestly with part of the truth, "I don't think either of those lads is worthy of you." He couldn't seem to rid himself of the heavy scowl he wore.

He risked a glance at Lia and was surprised to see that she was herself again, full of feeling, and that feeling was a strange mix of affectionate amusement and sadness. "Oh, Bard." She shook her head slowly. "You're sweet to care about me so. It is good to know that someone wants to look out for me."

Bard glanced away again, embarrassed. There was so much more than that. Could he tell her? What good would that do? He already knew he wasn't fit for her, so telling her how he felt would do what – make her feel sorry for him? Pathetic was not something he strived to be.

"I sent them away," Lia's voice drew him snapping back to the moment.

"What?" he muttered.  
"I sent them both away, both times," she reiterated. "Yes," she laughed when he only stared at her agape. "Just between you and me, the one is a drooling oaf and the other a sweet but naïve and tiresome man-child. I never asked for that kind of attention when I moved here. I didn't come here for that." Somehow, the blasé look on her face struck Bard as funny, and a grin broke through the storm. Lia laughed to see it. "That's better!" she declared, taking him by the hand again. "Are we friends?" she asked him.

Bard could only nod with an idiotic smile and squeeze her hand in return, so pleased was he at this news and at their reconciliation. She was merciful and kind-hearted for forgiving his brutishness. He told her as much, and she laughed merrily and brought him dessert and more cider in response.

Having pushed past that mess, they were able to find their normal rhythm again, and settled comfortably and gratefully into it. Lia told him again what a lovely thing she thought it was for him to bring her those ribbons, and he told her what a generous thing it had been for her patch his coat, and how delicious the apple berry pie had been, and that discussion led from one subject to another subject, all over the place, and within the hour, despite the lack of alcohol this time, they were laughing and jolly together again.

At one point, during a lull in the conversation, Lia was studying Bard's hand, and took it in her own, leaning close to him to examine it. He allowed this, just glad to have her close, whatever her reason. She smelled of lilacs and good food, and he closed his eyes, his heart pounding.

"Oh, Bard!" she cried, breathily and quiet, glancing up at him. "Your poor hands! The cold has taken its toll! Do they hurt?"

Bard looked down at his free hand, examining the cracks and roughness of his skin. "They always look like this," he told her. "Though, I do suppose they crack some at the fingertips and knuckles, in the colder weather."

"Well, I have just the thing!" Lia declared, and sprang from the table, disappearing down the stairs and reappearing a moment later with a little earthenware jar in her hand. "May I?" she asked, indicating his hand. Bard shrugged his permission.

She opened the jar, setting its little cork aside. "This is a special balm I learned to make in Tithering, where the winters are even colder. I would tell you what's in it, but it's a trade secret," she winked dramatically, and Bard chuckled. Lia drew her chair very close to his and took his hand in hers. With her other hand, she dipped two fingers into the jar and dabbed the balm onto the back of his hand. Then she spread it over his hand one tiny portion at a time, slowly massaging it into his skin. It felt cool at first, especially compared to the warm, smooth flesh of Lia's fingers, but then it just felt warm and wonderful after she massaged it in.

They sat in silence, Lia massaging Bard's hands, and he watching, mesmerized by her calming touch, hypnotized by her nearness. She took extra care to apply the balm at his fingertips and on his knuckles, diligently tending those areas as not to miss a single morsel of his tortured skin, passing over them with a double coat of the balm.

When she'd coated both hands, she started over with the first, this time without balm, just massaging. "I quite like your hands, Bard," Lia spoke finally, and it was strange to hear a sound other than their breathing and the crackling of the fire in the wood stove.

"Nah, they are rough and damaged," Bard shook his head, "ugly and old."

"You are wrong," Lia told him, her eyes wide with sincerity. She gazed dotingly at his palm, running her fingertips lightly over his calluses. "These are a story - they are a life! These hands are strong hands, working hands. They have all your years written on them, all your deeds! They are good hands. . .gentle hands," she said, her voice dropping low and soothing, "and they are beautiful."

Bard watched her face, so soft and kind. So utterly beautiful. He yearned to touch her. For now, he drank in the feel of her fingers on his hands, closing his eyes for a moment to absorb the pleasant sensation. How long had it been since he'd shared anything like this with a woman? He opened his eyes to watch her spread his hand flat against hers. His hand dwarfed hers by one joint length on each finger, and in much breadth. He gave a little sigh of a laugh, and Lia giggled.

"Delicate fiddler's hands," he muttered low. Lia beamed at him. "You should play for me," he said.

"No, I couldn't!" Lia giggled nervously, finally releasing his hands, and Bard regretted that he had spoken at all. But he was pleased when she didn't move her chair away again.

As they sat near together in peaceful silence for another moment, it occurred to Bard that he should try to come up with ways to make more labor-for-dinner trades. It was an old house, older than his, he knew – there had to be something that needed attention. He glanced around her kitchen, his keen eyes trying to discern if anything needed fixing, and his eyes came to rest on her door frame leading down her stairs.

"Do you see that?" he asked her gently, pointing to the door frame.

"What?" Lia asked intently, failing to follow.

"Your door frame there, you've got a crack in that beam," he explained.

"Oh, I know this place could use some work," Lia nodded ruefully. "And I'm hopeless in that way. Would you want to help me? For trade?" she asked, perking up as she picked up on his intention.

"I would," he agreed with a grin.

"Ooh, I would love that!" Lia lit up. "I shall be able to cook and bake for you. . .and you're wonderfully handy - in the end I'll bet you'll have this place looking good as new!"

Bard chuckled cheerfully at her enthusiasm.

"And best of all, we will be able to visit together whenever you come over," Lia said low and smooth, and her dulcet tone turned Bard's head. She patted his hand with hers, and he was spellbound, hope and joy rising triumphantly in him with a searing heat. They smiled at each other for a moment, then Lia yawned. "Oh! Pardon me!" she exclaimed in a comically squeaky voice when she had done, and Bard laughed.

"And me," Bard said, rising and helping Lia up. When she stood with him by the door to see him out, he said to her, "I'm sorry again for being such a brute, Lia. Thank you for forgiving me."

"It's nothing," Lia gestured dismissively, with the broad and warm smile Bard had come to know so well. "I'm just glad to see you, and to be seeing more of you soon."

"Goodnight, Lia," Bard spoke gently, and he was all softness and tenderness.

"Goodnight, dearest Bard," Lia answered, barely above a whisper, and off he went, savoring her with a last glance, warm from head to toe.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE: POETS AND THE PAST**

It was a quiet evening on the lake. A thin coat of fresh snow was layered on the buildings and boardwalks, but there was no wind. Inside Lia's house, Bard stood on a stool and, with effort, braced a heavy new beam over her stairwell doorway, thumping it into place with his free hand. When he finished, he dismounted from the step stool with a groaning sigh. Lia praised him and thanked him for it, bade him wash up, and then guided him to his seat at the table. He sat and rotated his stiff, sore shoulders and his neck slowly for a moment, unaware that Lia watched him as he grimaced and winced.

"Seems you've felt better," Lia observed with a frown as she set the table. "What happened?"

"Agh, I'm all right," Bard brushed it off.

Lia stopped what she was doing and turned to mock-scowl at him. "You, sir, are a liar," she told him, and Bard laughed.

"One of my deliveries," he told her, raising his arms and stretching the muscles with a little wince. "A fellow was helping me move some barrels of grain, and he hadn't tied them right – one came down on me, and I strained my shoulders a little under their weight, is all."

Lia's eyes grew wide. "Here you've got heavy barrels falling all over you, and you decided you would just act as if nothing had happened, and let me let you put up that new beam this evening?"

Bard smiled his wry grin at her. "I'm fine," he breathed a little laugh. Lia glowered at him, and he laughed harder.

"We'll just see about that," she muttered under her breath, and dropped the subject.

All through dinner, they conversed normally, cheerful and jovial as ever, and Bard thought she'd forgotten it, when, after dessert, she cleaned their plates away and came round to stand behind him. Bard glanced over his shoulder at her, and winced at the pulling of the muscles.

"Aha!" Lia exclaimed triumphantly. "Let me have a look at you," she ordered, and he indulged her, grinning to himself in a combination of amusement, embarrassment, and pleasure at her attention. She ran her hands over his muscles, poking and prodding and asking him to tell her when she hit the right places. Once she understood where the problems lay, she set about massaging the muscles, and Bard groaned quietly, closing his eyes with a deep sigh. He had to lean against the table to resist her force; Lia's hands were strong. She told him to put his head on his arms, resting on the table. He obeyed and was rewarded with what seemed like a blissful eternity of her hands rolling, pulling, pushing, smoothing. She carefully dug the heels of her hands in deep and smoothed out every large muscle one at a time, working the smaller muscles of his neck and shoulders with strong fingers. His face, hidden on his arms, winced and grimaced with a pleasurable pain as Lia rubbed the soreness out of him. After a long time, Lia rested her hands on his shoulders.

"Phew!" She exclaimed. "I'm afraid that's all I've got in me," she laughed, and Bard picked his head up, blinking sleepily up at her, drowsy from the calming effect of her touch.

She came round and sat beside him at the table, and he sat up straight, stretching his arms high over his head and wide out to his sides, twisting this way and that in his seat with a long and contented groan, glowing from her doting touch. "My stars!" he exclaimed in a massive sigh, growing still again. "What did I ever do to earn that?" He shook his head in disbelief, smiling broadly at the amused and increasingly satisfied-looking Lia, who laughed. "_Thank_ you!" he breathed earnestly, his eyebrows high and his eyes wide.

"Glad I could help," she said, folding her hands up and leaning her cheek against them, as she had several nights ago. Bard sat back, considering her with another little shake of his head. She stared back.

"So what's in store for you tomorrow out on the water?" she asked him, her voice quiet and mellow, her eyes curving with warmth and affection. "No more accidents, I hope," she added with a little laugh.

"I hope so, too," Bard chuckled. "Though, should something happen, I think I know now who to call upon for help."

"Yes, you do," Lia nodded proudly and winked.

When Bard recovered from the effect of that charming wink, he endeavored to carry on the conversation, and it lasted in merriment for another hour or so, before winding down and culminating in the usual chorus of mutual thanks and smiles at the door.

That night, Bard slept better than he had in ages.

About a week and a half later, after several more evenings spent together, Lia and Bard sat back from yet another delicious meal, and Bard reflected as he helped her tidy up. They'd grown quite used to each other, and at least for his own part, Bard felt as if they couldn't have been more amiable if they had been friends for decades. Bard attributed this to Lia's warm and welcoming nature. And all this was to say nothing of the effect she had on him; she was his first thought every morning when he woke, the light that greeted him at dawn; and at nights he would fall asleep with the remembered sound of her laughter drawing a grin across his lips. His days out in the cold were warmer, his sleep more peaceful, and his work seemed to pass more quickly and easily. The work he did at Lia's house didn't feel like work at all, though one might have thought from the enthusiastic appreciation she lavished upon him after each task that he had toiled in back-breaking labor for hours every time. And oh, how she fed him! Bard's late wife had been a good hand in the kitchen, but Lia had a special talent with food the likes of which Bard had never imagined.

In a few ways, Lia did remind him of his late wife, for both women were cheerful and generous caretakers, and both were very beautiful. Bard was lost in thought when Lia noticed that he'd drifted away.

"What are you pondering, poet?" she asked him softly as they stood together at her counter.

Bard turned slowly to meet her eyes, and considered her for a moment. She waited patiently for his answer, her sweet little grin lighting her face as she dried a dish. He decided to tell her the truth. "I was thinking of my wife," he said quietly.

Lia's little grin grew into a broad, warm one. "Will you tell me about her?" She guided him to the fire, where they pulled up some chairs by the stove. As Lia poured them some wine and took her seat by his side, Bard drifted into memory. For a long time, he told her beautiful stories of his life when his children were young – what a loving mother his wife had been, what a friend and confidant to him, and how he'd missed her insufferably when she passed.

Bard grew quiet for a while after he'd finished, lost in thought and feeling. Finally Lia spoke. She reached over and slid her hand over his, squeezing his fingers. "Those we love, who leave us, live always in our hearts," she breathed quietly.

Bard met her eyes, and a slow grin overtook him.

"Now _you_ are the poet," he spoke softly.

Lia smiled.

"Do you miss your husband?" Bard asked after another moment.

Lia looked into the fire, and she nodded. "He was a very good man. He was born into wealth, but used his position to help others. He had a generous heart, and he was very kind to me, as were his kin, especially considering that I entered the marriage with very little dowry." Lia smiled at some private thought, and Bard wanted to ask her to share it, but another question that had been nagging at him for some time kept intruding into his thoughts, and he considered that now might be as good a time as ever to ask it.

"Lia, I hope you will forgive me if this is a rude question, so don't answer it if you'd rather not, but. . .you never speak of any children. . ." Lia glanced at Bard, then sadly away, and Bard's heart sank. "I'm sorry to mention it," he said, and grew quiet, watching her in his periphery.

After a moment, she turned to him. "Had you heard that two more men came calling on me of late?"

Bard's eyebrows rose in surprise, both because he hadn't heard of this, and also because he was wondering where she was going with this subject line. He shook his head in answer, his brows drawing together into a confused frown, and his stomach growing tight.

"I sent them away, too," Lia sighed, looking into the fire, and then back to Bard again. "I cannot bear children," she told him, the sudden revelation striking him strongly. "They would not want me if they knew. That fool Blaine has been here three times this week," she sighed, shaking her head. "I wish they would all stop coming." And with that, she stared determinedly into the flames in silence, her face uncharacteristically contemplative, wringing her hands slowly in her lap. It wasn't like Lia to fidget. Bard thought she would not speak again, but suddenly her voice rose again out of the stillness. "My husband had a wife before me, who begat a child, and she and the child died on the day of its birth. Two years later, he married me, and in the nine years we were together, I bore him no children." She paused for a moment, then added, her voice sinking to a whisper as she spoke, "I think it was his greatest regret." She rose and strode swiftly to the window, her back to Bard, who sat staring after her in a state of aching pity.

His own children had been his greatest source of joy, and he loved them more than he would ever have thought he could love anyone or anything in the world. They had been his comfort when he'd lost his beloved wife - living pieces of her, living memories - and watching and helping them grow into the man and women they had become had been an experience he felt privileged to witness and enjoy. He thought of them often, and heard from them occasionally, and once in a while would have the joy of visiting them; and just knowing they were out in the world and well and happy was a constant source of comfort and peace to him.

He rose and went to Lia, whose eyes shone with tears. She glanced up at him, blinking them back. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and drew her into his arms. She folded gratefully into him, laying her head at his shoulder, and he stroked her hair with his hand. "Even without children, your husband must have loved and appreciated you," Bard assured her sincerely. "He'd have been mad not to," he added in a whisper. He wanted to say so much more, but could not will himself to do so.

Lia grew very still in his arms, then sighed. "Now you know my secret," she muttered.

"It changes nothing, for me," Bard shrugged. Lia seemed very still again, and he continued to hold her, stroking her hair slowly. He longed to tell her how she'd breathed life back into him, and though it may not be the same as generating a new life, it was still inestimably valuable. He wanted to tell her that he would give anything to have her. Instead, he rested his cheek against her forehead in silence, closing his eyes.

After a moment, she pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. Bard's heart thudded and ached with gladness to have her so close. Lia's eyes, tear-free and regaining their twinkle by the second, seemed to peer through him, so intent was her gaze. Out of his control, his hand lifted itself to her cheek, where he ran his knuckles over her smooth, pale flesh. He could feel her palms traveling up his back, and she closed her eyes, her long, soft lashes nearly touching her white cheek. She leaned her face up toward his, and though he fought himself, he could not resist her softly-parted pink lips, and leaned down to meet her. He kissed her softly, and she pressed her mouth to his in a long, smooth embrace. Immediately, he felt a pleasant fire rise through him, threatening to overtake him in seconds.

_You can't,_ his thoughts interrupted him. _You can't do this to her. Even without children, a better man than you will love her. Who could not love her? She deserves better. Leave her be. Do it now!_

Guiltily, Bard broke away from their kiss, pushing their bodies apart with gentle hands. Lia looked into his eyes curiously, disappointed.

"I should go," he told her sadly, fighting himself.

"Why?" she asked, and he was drawn to her against his better judgment.

He took her face between his hands, and he felt hers at his waist again. He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he breathed. He pressed his lips to her forehead, released her, and separated himself from her again. He fetched his coat, said "Goodnight, Lia," and left her standing somewhat bewildered at her door.

Outside in the cold, he resolved to stay out late on his barge for at least three days in a row, and not see her after. If he couldn't do right by her, by being a neighbor and friend only, then he wouldn't allow himself to see her at all. His insides roiled in protest, and he was partly disgusted with himself for placing such draconian constraints upon his feelings, but he told himself it was for Lia's good. She deserved a younger, better man. And that was all there was to it.

His heart, so full of tenderness for her, sank heavily, and his shoulders drooped under the weight of it as he climbed his own stairs and entered the silence of his dark, empty house.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX: VIOLENT NIGHT**

A few hours later, an anguished cry woke Bard with a start, and, sitting bolt upright in bed, at once his whole being seemed to crackle with sharp light and frantic energy. He heard it again: "No! _Stop!_"

_Lia._

He sprang from his bed in his shirt and trousers and ran outside, peering across the way. The hulking form of a man wrestled Lia in her doorway, trying to push her and himself into her house, and she was struggling madly against him.

"Get out of here, I said!" Lia cried. "_You're hurting me!_"

"STOP!" Bard thundered across the gap, Lia's frightened voice freezing the blood in his veins. He booked down the stairs two and three at a time, his whole body on fire, not even feeling the snow on his bare feet or the icy air in his lungs.

"Well look, it's the whore's lover," a gruff voice leered down Lia's stairs at Bard, who skidded across the snow to a halt at the bottom step, tense and waiting, battle-ready.

"You get out of here!" Lia hissed furiously at the man Bard had now identified as a drunk and belligerent Blaine.

Blaine laughed.

"I swear to god, you get off my stairs, or I shall _kick you down them_!" Lia threatened in a trembling voice, coming up behind Blaine as Bard took a few steps up toward him.

"I'd do as she says, boy," Bard growled, wishing Lia would go inside and bar her door. But she was too angry. Bard wondered if part of that was his fault.

Blaine turned around and gave Lia a shove, and she took a swing at him that connected with a thud. He slapped her and dealt her a much harder shove, and she went flying backward and down onto her walkway. Bard was already half-way up the stairs when Blaine took hold of the rails on either side of the top step and braced himself. Bard paused, watchful, his mind sharp and cautious even through what was now nearly blinding rage. Was this really happening? It was too awful to imagine! His every fiber screamed out to strangle Blaine to death, to tear out his throat with his teeth.

"Touch her again, and you're a dead man," Bard snarled ferociously.

"What are you gonna do, old man?" Blaine sneered.

"Come down, and I'll show you," Bard promised, his eyes flashing dangerously in the moonlight.

Blaine laughed.

Bard warned him, "You either come down here, or I'm going to come up there."

"I'll be right back – don't go anywhere," Blaine called to Lia tauntingly over his shoulder.

Bard's nostrils flared, clouds of irate steam emanating from him like dragon breath, and he stepped backwards down the stairs and took a few long backwards strides onto the open boardwalk at the bottom so Blaine couldn't use his height on the stairs to launch himself down upon him. Blaine jogged quickly down the stairs and came straight for Bard. He might have been much younger and a worthy size bigger, but Bard had fought all his life, and, for Lia, he would die.

When Blaine charged him, Bard ducked aside and tackled him by the waist as he passed, knocking Blaine as hard as he could into the wall of Lia's lower floor. Blaine came up swinging, and Bard dodged a right and left with a swift pair of backward leans, then popped up and landed a hard right directly in Blaine's eye. Blaine roared and tackled Bard to the boards with a heavy thud, but Bard was ready for this and used their momentum and a great heave to roll the two of them, placing himself on top, where he pummeled Blaine with three mighty punches to the face before Blaine got a hold of his throat. Choking, Bard wriggled a leg up into Blaine's stomach and pressed his knee in hard, and Blaine's grip loosened enough that Bard rolled free and rolled to his feet, positioning himself by the edge of the boards. When Blaine came at him again, he simply darted aside and let Blaine lose his balance and fall in the water. Then when Blaine surfaced and threw his arms on the dock to drag himself out, Bard kicked him hard in the face and retreated agilely so that Blaine's grab at his legs missed and caught only air. Bard waited for him this time, knowing that the icy water would serve to slow Blaine. When Blaine climbed onto the boards, instead of giving up as Bard had hoped, he shuddered, roared, and came at him again. Thrashing madly, Blaine managed to connect an elbow with Bard's cheekbone and nose, but Bard landed three lightning-fast punches – one in the stomach and two in the head, and kicked the still-struggling Blaine to the boards, where he straddled the boy's broad chest and proceeded to pepper him in the face with a vicious assault until the boy stopped fighting back. He hit him once more just out of rage, then climbed to his feet and stood over Blaine, panting hard.

Between ragged breaths, he promised in a fierce staccato growl, "If you _ever_ set one arm, one leg, one hand, on this property again, _I will break it._ And if you _ever_ lay a hand on that woman again, _I will kill you_. This I swear."

Blaine groaned and rolled onto his side. Bard let Blaine gather himself weakly to his feet and watched him stagger away. Then Bard bolted up the stairs.

Lia sat silently at the top, clutching the rail, trembling convulsively, her eyes wide and terrified. A little trickle of blood, black in the starlight, dribbled from the corner of her mouth down her chin. She rose to meet Bard, and they folded desperately into each other's arms. Bard led Lia inside, where he closed and barred her door.

"Are you all right?" she asked, fretting over him with shaking hands.

"I'll be fine. How bad did he hurt you?" Bard asked, tilting her head toward the light of the little lantern she must have lit and carried up when she answered her door.

Lia shook her head. "I'm fine! He got me in the lip - I'm fine! Let me look at your face!" she insisted. They moved to the table, sitting close together, and Bard reluctantly let her examine him. The impact on his cheekbone thankfully had not split the skin, but it would be mightily swollen soon. She rose and found a rag to give him for the trickle of blood from his nose. He wiped it a couple times and stopped, just staring at her intensely. "I'm sorry," Lia breathed, and she began to cry. "I thought if I just told him to go away, he would! I didn't know he would try to. . ."

"Shhh," Bard soothed her, taking her face between his hands and caressing her. "This is _not_ your fault." He shook his head, but Lia just clutched his wrists with trembling hands and sobbed. He drew her into himself, tucking her head into his shoulder, and held her tightly. After a moment, she drew back to look at him.

"We should go down to the first floor," she sniffed, "clean you up, fetch some ice water for your cheek. Will you come?"

Bard nodded and took her hand, letting her lead him down into the belly of her house. There, they tended each other in silence. Bard's nose stopped bleeding, and after Lia rinsed out her mouth a few times with the cold water, she was clean. They gathered some snow and made a cold compress for Bard's cheek, and he alternated one on each of his hands for his swollen knuckles; and all the while, Lia trembled like a leaf, and Bard kept a comforting hand on her to help calm her. When his cheek had been numb for some time, he decided to call it quits and put down his compresses.

Lia stroked his face with tentative fingers. Bard's heart broke to see her so distraught.

"Let's go where it's warmer," he proposed, and Lia agreed, following him back up a level to her bedroom, where he stoked her fire and added some fresh kindling. She sat on her bed and reached for him. He came and joined her. She pulled him into bed and buried them both up to the chin in the covers, nestling close into him. He gladly wrapped his arms around her.

"I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come," Lia sniffed, a tiny whisper at his throat.

Bard squeezed her reassuringly. "But I did. . .I did," he told her, pressing his lips to her forehead. She still trembled; he caressed her back comfortingly.

"What if he comes back?" Lia whispered.

"I'll kill him," Bard said with certainty. "But he won't."

"Thank you for coming," she whispered after a moment.

He closed his eyes, pressing his lips to her forehead again. She grew quiet for a while, though she continued to shiver in his arms, and finally she stopped breathing, then took a great deep breath, and whispered harshly, "I was so afraid, Bard!" and let out a series of sobs. She clutched him tightly, and he held her close, caressing her.

"It's all right, love," he soothed her. "It's all right. . .you're safe now."

When she quieted after a while, she pulled slightly away to brush her face free of tears with her fingertips. She looked into his eyes, and placed a delicate hand on his cheek. "You saved me," she whispered, and pressed her lips to his for a long moment, kissing him earnestly. "Thank you," she told him, holding his face.

"Mm," he closed his eyes. "Thank _you_," he said dryly, and the corner of his mouth curled into a tiny rueful smile. Lia gave a sad little sniff of a laugh.

After a moment in which they merely looked into each other's eyes, she whispered, "Will you stay with me?"

"Yes," Bard agreed, kissing her forehead again.

"Thank you," she murmured.

She curled her body against his, and, in time, they both slept.

* * *

Very early in the morning, before the sun rose, Bard stirred and woke. Lia lay sound asleep, curled up in his arms, deliciously soft and warm. He sighed, immediately full of elation and anguish. The events of the night, the joyful and the painful, played through his memory, swirling together with all his overwhelming tenderness for Lia into a tempest of feeling. This was his perfect heaven, to wake to the lilac smell of her vibrant hair by his cheek, the soft rise and fall of her shoulder as she breathed, the feel of her curving body pressed against his; and yet, he felt it was utterly wrong of him to accept these gifts as his own. Though it pained him beyond all expression in his aching loneliness and in his anguished adoration of her to resist her and acknowledge that she would be better off without him, he felt it was undeniably the truth.

And so, with very great care, stiff and pained as he was from the brawl, he extracted himself slowly and silently from her bed, feeling as he did that he left all his warmth, within and without, there beside her on the mattress. He tucked the covers carefully back around her, stood, and looked longingly upon her sleeping form, feeling tortured and tormented, blessed and cursed for having been able to spend a night beside her. He vowed that he would cherish the experience always, and that he would somehow find a way to allow it to be enough. Then, with a great and silent sigh, he turned from her and stealthily quit her house before she could even stir.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN: ACCEPTANCE**

That especially cold night, he knew she would watch for him to come home, and though he had stayed out late on the barge, and though he had finally sneaked in the back way at the bottom of his house and ghosted through his rooms in the dark to fetch a crust of bread for his dinner, still she must have known, for still she came. When the inevitable knock sounded on his door, he closed his eyes, dropping his head in defeat. He sighed long and heavily. Feeling a thousand years old, immensely weighed down with sorrow and torment, he made his way to the door and opened it to face her.

She stood in silence in the moonlight, looking like a perfect, though sad, statue, but for the red welt at the corner of her mouth where Blaine had struck her. The sight of her was a hot blade through Bard's ribs. She searched his face for a few seconds, opened her mouth as if she would speak, paused, closing it, then finally said, in a low and quiet voice, "I. . .wanted to see that you were all right, and to. . .thank you, again."

Bard stood silently in his doorway, his breath a cloud in the cold night, the only proof that he himself was not a grim stone statue.

"Will you not speak?" she asked him quietly.

Bard shifted his weight painfully from one foot to the other and fought a wince, for he was much battered from the previous night. "You've no need to thank me," he told her with a sigh, and fell silent again as the power to speak left him once more.

"Are you all right?" Lia breathed after a moment, watching him intently.

He kept himself carefully still.

"I'll be fine," he told her gently.

Lia blinked at him, clutching her shawl about her and shivered - or maybe trembled - he wasn't sure which. "Will you come and have dinner with me?" she asked.

He looked away from her, shifting his weight again with a sigh, a heavy frown on his brow.

"Please," she added in a whisper, clutching her shawl again with another shiver, this one stronger. He met her eyes, which stared imploringly into his.

"Lia," he sighed, but could not continue, merely shaking his head slowly. For he had not the strength to tell her all that was in his heart and mind.

"You look like you could use a good meal and a warm fire, poet," Lia said, and Bard could see her work hard to muster one of her playful grins. "Come with me," she breathed, reaching out a hand toward his.

Bard would not move. "No, Lia," he told her, his face anguished.

"Why?" she whispered, and Bard looked away, glowering into the distance. In his periphery, he could see her tremble again, and shift restlessly. Then, to his utter surprise, she blurted, "Oh, for heaven's sake, Bard! Don't be such a melancholy, stubborn fool! After the night you had last night, you need a hot meal and a warm hearth, not to creep about in the dark here and go to bed hungry; and if you won't come, mark my words - I shall knock you low, and, big as you are, I'll find a way to carry you over there and up all those stairs myself!"

Bard turned to look at her at once with wide eyes and high brows of amazement. Despite the desperate situation of his heart, despite the aches and pains in his body, despite the bitter cold in which they stood, Lia's passionate, frowning little face, with her flashing eyes and steaming, angry breath, in the heat of her caring-driven task-taking of him, caught him so perfectly off guard and struck him so funny and endearing that he could not help but grin in genuine amusement. She was a fierce and fiery spirit, and his admiration of that was the last weight that tipped his resolve.

_God damn me for the wretched, selfish bastard I am, but I'll go with her, and glad,_ he thought.

With a sigh, he stepped out toward her, closing his door behind him.

"That's better!" Lia scowled up at him, snatching his hand in her own. She led him away and up into her house, where indeed his spirit lifted to be. She sat him at the table and brought him a bounty of good food and hot cider, then sat close beside him as if to show him exactly how she would have things be, between them. And Bard's weary heart filled with guilty gladness to have her near, to share her table and her hearth. He would not let himself worry about the future, even an hour from now, merely absorbing and savoring the warmth of her presence and her kindness in the moment.

As they ate, they sat in a silence neither one of them seemed willing or able to break, and it was one of mutual need and understanding, shared weariness and yearning, kindred suffering, and a strong bond of affection.

Familiar with the after-dinner routine, Bard rose with Lia when they'd done, and their silence continued as they cleared the table. Then they stood together at her counter, gazing side by side out the window for some time, their arms just barely touching, neither one of them moving.

"My beautiful Bard, you are a gift," Lia murmured, breaking the long silence at last as she put her arms around him and lay her head on his shoulder. He could not help but embrace her. She raised her head after a moment, gazing into his eyes, and he grew nervous, because she smoldered up at him, her lips parted, and he knew he would likely be helpless to resist. Sure enough, she reached her pretty face up and kissed him, long and sweet, her full lips melting into his, and he felt his whole body tingle and surge.

Hating himself, cursing himself, he took her face between his hands, returning her kisses with wretched and greedy enthusiasm, running his fingers through her hair, clutching her to himself with his hands round her slender waist. He thrilled and despaired to feel the soft curves of her body pressed against him. Her breath was hot on his face, and her fingers raked his back, drawing lines of fire in their path across his flesh.

Lia opened her mouth wider, inviting him to penetrate her, and he obligingly kissed her deeply, drawing a soft moan of pleasure from her throat. With ragged breath, he tore his mouth from hers and dragged his lips down her throat, and Lia arched her back, pressing herself against him. His thoughts raced, unwelcome, and his passionate, pounding heart grew heavy.

"Aaaggghh!" he growled low, tearing himself away with a great and terrible effort. He pried himself free and pushed their bodies apart, holding her by the shoulders at arm's length. "No," he shook his head, catching his breath. Lia gaped at him. "No," he repeated.

"What?" Lia asked, confused.

"I must go," he told her, pulling away and fetching his coat before she could even respond.

"Bard!" she laughed incredulously. "You're not _going?_"

He paused to look at her and put his hand on the door, turning away. She was at his side at once.

"Bard! Why?" she asked, hurt, clutching at his sleeve.

Unable to resist, he placed a hand on her cheek, and she held it there, closing her eyes for a second and nuzzling her face toward his touch.

"I won't do this to you," he breathed quietly.

"What?" she laughed breathily, and slid her hands up around his neck, watching him worriedly. She stroked his cheek, and, when he didn't answer, only gazing down at her, angst-ridden, she leaned up and touched her lips to his. He pulled away from her.

"No, Lia," he whispered, gently taking her hands from his neck and giving them back to her. He regarded her sadly, tearing open his wound and finally telling her the source of his guilt and reluctance. "You deserve better. . .than an old man."

"What?" Lia laughed, reaching for him again, but he held her hands to keep them off him. "Why do you do this?" she groaned.

"I have _daughters_ who are nearly your age," he told her, shaking his head.

"And?" Lia asked, her brow knitting in consternation.

"And I wouldn't want _them_ to be tethered to some old thing, doomed to care for an aging old wretch when they should be living a full life!" He frowned heavily, gesturing emphatically.

"A full life?" Lia sighed incredulously. "And what could make a life more full than to have the one you love by your side through all your years together?"

"Yes! And you have _many_ more years than I do," Bard pointed out, thinking he had finally made his point.

Lia only laughed again. "I think you are not _half_ so old as you pretend," she told him, narrowing her eyes playfully, but speaking in earnest. "I saw you fight Blaine; I have seen you work!" She ran her hands over the muscles of his chest, and he allowed it, taking in her words. "Your body is strong and nimble! I think with the proper care and attention," she gazed dotingly up at him, "you will last for many long years yet." She grinned so sweetly, so devotedly, that he had to pull away from her again.

He stepped back, shaking his head. "You think you would be happy, but you would not."

"How can you even pretend to know that?" Lia asked, irritation leaking into her voice. "You cannot possibly know how I will feel."

"Whether or not I know it," Bard said, turning to her, "I will not let you take that risk. Not for me."

Lia gaped at him. "So you would have me do what – be alone? Be _without you_? You would rather I. . ."

Bard interrupted her, "Not alone," he sighed, frustrated. "I would have you find someone more. . .worthy," he finished.

"Isn't that _my _decision to make, _my_ judgment?" Lia asked firmly. "My beloved poet," she breathed with a sad little laugh, "my kind, good, brave, honorable Bard, this is so much more simple than you make it."

Bard watched her, frowning down at her beautiful face as she came to stand before him once more. She gently took up his hands. But before she could speak, Bard spoke again.

"I have so little to offer you," he told her painfully with a shake of his head, his voice low and full of sorrow. "Besides being old, I am _not_ a wealthy man! You would be better cared for by someone of greater means."

"I care _nothing_ for means," Lia objected immediately, frowning. "I am not in need of being cared for, in that way." She shook her head.

"Lia," Bard sighed, squeezing her fingers in earnest, "I'm trying to do what's best for you, and if you would just consider. . ." Before he could finish, Lia cut him off.

"It is very simple!" she reiterated. "I love you!" she declared pointedly, her eyes sparkling up into his, and Bard felt those words and her sincere gaze blaze hotly through his core, striking a glorious note there that resonated exquisitely throughout his entire being. He felt the significance of the moment deep into his very soul and outward again, a surge of warmth rippling from his feet to his fingertips. "Do you love me?" she asked in a whisper.

Bard's innards twisted and writhed in turmoil as joy tumbled over with despair and regret, fear tried to strangle hope . . . His pulse pounded in his head and Lia's eyes burned into his. She regarded him with such adoration! Such hopeful, open, earnest affection! _Yes, yes, I love you, yes!_ he screamed within.

He trembled with the great effort of pulling his hands out of hers and pushing her away from him, shaking his head.

He glanced at her face and instantly regretted it, for he saw a keen and awful pain there.

He opened the door and stepped out, closing it swiftly behind him, and strode quickly away. Layer upon layer of anguish came crushing down upon him. He thudded clumsily down Lia's stairs and hurried away down the long boardwalk toward the edge of town past building after building, lane after lane, unseeing, lost within. His heart was sick with pain, so that he thought it would burn a hole through the front of him and he would perish there on the boards. His head spun with angst.

Suddenly and unbidden, the image of his wife came to his mind, a terrible, beautiful moment he'd not thought of in years. As she lay dying over a decade ago, her words slow and labored between long and heavy breaths, she had said to him, "My cherished husband, I pray a day will come when love will visit you again. And I pray you will have the courage to seize it, no matter what, for there is nothing greater in all the world. . .than love." And those had been her last and final words.

Bard came to a sudden halt, his boots sliding on the icy ground, and he stood trembling, snow falling in silence all around him, the night still and calm. His breath caught in his throat, and a mighty wave of feeling overcame him, bubbling and roiling through his veins, rising into resolution. He drew himself upright, growing still, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, taking a deep breath of frosty air that burned his lungs and stung his throat. He turned back to face the direction he had come, and took off running.

He could not run fast enough back down the boardwalk, buildings and lanes flying by, before at last he skidded past the bottom of Lia's stairs on the ice, seizing the rail with a desperate hand and swinging himself onto the lowest step. Then he climbed them two and three at a time, tripping twice in his haste on the slippery wood, and finally reached the top. The kitchen door banged open, and Lia flew out onto the walkway, her eyes wide, red with weeping, her cheeks stained with tears, fiery hair whipping like flame about her alabaster face in the frigid wind of the night.

Breathless, Bard strode swiftly toward her, took her head in his hands, and crushed his mouth to hers. Lia melted into him with a sighing groan, then after a moment, pushed him away and slapped him sharply across the face, a fierce scowl of pain ablaze on her pale countenance. Impervious to the smarting of his cheek, Bard grabbed her again, by her arms.

"I'm sorry," he breathed desperately. "I love you, Lia!"

Her knees buckled, and she sagged in his grip. "You bloody fool!" she hissed, her eyes aflame. "You cruel and terrible brute!" She sobbed, pushing vainly at him to try to free herself.

"I know!" he agreed wretchedly. "I'm sorry, Lia! But I do love you! _I love you!_" he emphasized, trying to lock her wild gaze. She heaved a mighty push at him and freed herself, but he seized her again immediately, circling his arms around her. She writhed fiercely against him, breathing furiously, weakening rapidly under the weight of another sob. He drew her close, pressing her tightly against himself, holding her head to his shoulder, and felt her hands clutch his back, hard. "I won't leave you again," he told her, and she freed her head to stare up at him. "I won't," he repeated, shaking his head.

"You love me?" she muttered miserably.

"Since the day you first appeared at my door," he breathed earnestly, anguished, his words tumbling out in rapid succession, "with your fiery hair and your eyes like the summer sky," he caressed her face fervently with both hands, his eyes glossing over with the promise of tears, "your smile like the warm spring sun on my face after winter's long night, and your laugh like the bubbling music of cheerful streams!"

Lia collapsed against him with a rasping sigh. "My beloved poet," she laughed through her own tears.

"I wanted you then, and I want you now," Bard emphasized with a squeeze of his arms, and Lia closed her eyes, reaching her face toward him. Kissing her passionately, Bard pushed her backwards toward her doorway, and they clambered awkwardly inside. Bard kicked the door shut behind them. The impact knocked an icicle loose, and it came crashing down onto the walkway.


End file.
